poetry

A small sampling of things I've written over the years that could arguably fall under the general blanket of "Poetry." Much of the poetry you see here was originally published on Five By Five Hundred, and you can also find my stuff in upcoming issues of Asimov's magazine. (please note: this isn't actually structured into any kind of order or anything)

A small sampling of things I've written over the years that could arguably fall under the blanket of "Poetry." Much of the poetry you see here was originally published on Five By Five Hundred, and you can also find my stuff in upcoming issues of Asimov's magazine. Some of you might also find put to music.

(please note: I just kind of pasted these here without any rhyme, reason, or order to them. so keep looking through, and maybe you'll see something you like!)

He and She are two lines, convergingto a point like sharks in steady motion:always moving forward, never going back,and never standing still until its end.

He and She are straight lines with nothingbut a steamy ninety-eight-point-six degreesbetween them, keeping them apart,separated by an ark until they reach the Point.

She is a solid line, at least 5B lead,running parallel along the gridwithout wavering, without a bend,and inked to give her shadows,character, emphasis and depth, whilethe other lines perpendicule around her.

He is a dotted line, bisectual,cutting squares in half, pointing straighta-head like an arrow, dangerous andpea-cocked by its fletchings.A compound beau with pulleysand gears that often miss the mark.

He and She are headed for a Vanishing Point,To a collision, or towards a horizon linewhere every building skews in a new directiondown slanted streets, slouching towards,To end, or to continue on and on, anon.

He and She are headed towards a head,forged by perspective. A trick of the eyesand the I’s and lines, the lives and the lies,manipulating space- and wasting -timecreating new dimensions to live in-side by side, not content with length-by-height.

He and She are two lines, converging to a Point:An ending, a forever, or flip-sides of a coin?

A sundial, sitting at the edge of a skirt, is feedingon decay from proscenium walls. The crumble ofits majesty is Grecian in its tragedy, but hardlyas memorable as the long forgotten lusterof the golden laurel leaves that adorn the façade.

The space below is filled with rowsof wine-stained lips, each frozen ina petrified reach to kiss the skyand hide its eyes from the dyingdesolation that they themselvesonce wreaked upon the stage.

If only these mouths were open, they could tastethe stuffy air staled by every clapping palm,every whistle, every pleading whisper, and thelast recited lines whose echoes still fill the space—they are always trying desperately to escapebut only can reverberate off offloorboards drenched with rainand tears, cleverly constructedarches that have failed to do their job,and of course, the final curtain.

Summer was never our season, or soit seems (excepting Scarborough beaches,crossing bridges by Five, colorful eyes,those few sticky nights we still hold on to):first mute, then blind, now trapped in different times,the heat has always been kept down. But thatsensation—waking beside you, the catspitting allergens at me, purring, “Mine!”as she nuzzled your chest—was still worth it.If I could I’d have given you sunlightbut the moon waged war with us, and our fightswere never known for being temperate,like the summers we keep wasting awayor nights spent wishing for one more day.

(that’s the whole point of no return) she saidpicking pedals from a chartreuse pistil letting themslip from her fingers without thought withoutfeeling as they fluttered to the floor to become something or not that’s why we let them flyor fade awayit’s like riding in a parking lot and leavingtraining wheels on and on and on and neverstanding on your own two(wheels ways eyes feet) wecan/not keep waiting for the okay/go (why) yes/no—broken glass and open windows—tethered safetychords and time and rooms and lines and(yours and mine)waitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaitingwaiting

He parted his lips—not for a kiss, but to tell her howshe looked her most majesticin the shadows, her naked flesh, pearledwhite with spots of sweat, glowing softlyin the luminescent blue of the room,or in the deepest, cleanest ocean,naked limbs pretzel’ed all aroundeach other. Tangled; intertwined.A place where even moonlightcouldn’t be itself, but burstingstreams of sunlight, rolled and wrappedaround celestial cratered curves, barelypermeating through her thicknavy curtains. When he caughtthat soft glimmer, he wanted totell her how he gleaned himselfthrough her eyes, how for oncehe admired his own facewhen he found itreflected in her deep, dark,dilated pupils, and for whathe hoped that she herselfhad seen in his. But allshe heard was, “Youlook better withthe lightsoff.”

hide white rose bouquets in your shotgun case,nuzzle burnt cork stubble on her tender face,stroke velvet cheeks with your torn leather glove,romantic surprises from skylights above,crash through her window, wait in a dark place.your shattered glass snowfall leaves not a traceexcept on her bed, where arrangements there ofbotanical art hide the jagged-edged bladesthat cut into her, leaving scars in the shapeof each mystery land she imagines you rove—her knight in drab armor, the one who once droveher home on his motorbike, a team solitaire raceagainst reason and rhyme, against time, against space:oh, it’s a hard to be a badass when you’re in love.

Oh Michal,Brother Michal, now it’s time for you to sleep.It’s only you and me, and seven yearsof memories. The vomit of a child’s screamand pungent odors still haunt me. You’re slowacross the edges, on the uptake, all around,so Michal,Brother Michal, say good night and restyour head upon the ground.

Oh Mother,My dark Mother, sleeping soundlydown a well. Please remember, sodismembered, every fairy tale you gave meso to tell. Did your art excuse the fashion?Did it justify the mean and twisted torturethat your oldest son endured beforeI put you both to sleep?

Oh Father,Fascist Father, floating freely underground,rest in peaceful little pieces with the one youlove and I will make you proud with everylast fantastic fable that was never fit for print.Oh Father,Our Father, pardon please your thrice-named child of your first and greatest sin

and flash that toothy pillowsmile ’til I was not alive-alive, ohPillowman please take my handand squeeze me—softly, sweetly’til I died.

Baby, can you read this mind?Because I won’t say a word.I’d rather hide myself insideof this ruby-tinted world. But if youlooked behind these colored glasses,you would find that darling, it’s notlove, it’s just another trick of the eye.

When I dream of Jean, prior tothe goblin Queen, it’s the thoughtthat counts on me to cheat.But you will always find me inthis white hot room for threekeeping Frost and fire waitingwilling on their knees. You see,

every girl is an apple. Yes, everygirl is an apple. Every girlis an apple in my one red eye.

Marvelous girl, let me enteryours; I’ll show you mine. Just knowthat I keep one foot out the doorand in her mind in a fantasy: I losecontrol of you and then escape,then when you’re gone I tell myselfthat it’s too late because every girl

is an apple. Yes, every girl isan apple. Every girl is an applein my one red eye,

and if lookscould kill, then this could be love-ly to see you again, in lifeor ’til death do us part.

You always tasted better when we kissed in black and white,and your slender cigarillo ash shined softly in the lightof the gas lamp halo overhead that guides you through the night—yes, you always tasted best in black and white.

You always sounded better singing secrets under groundbeneath the lonely light that lit our love and hummed electric soundsthat harmonized our haggard hearts and beat in leaps and bounds—yes, you always sang the sweetest under ground.

You always saw me better when you spied me through the hazeof twilight mist, a blanket full of nihilistic greys.The kind that keeps the cold out, brought us comfort in our days—yes, you always spied me spotless through the haze.

You always tasted better when we kissed in black and white,and your slender cigarillo ash shined softly in the nightwhen the gas lamp halo overhead would guide you towards the light,but I loved you all the more when you right.

The wine stains shatteredslate, fermenting still/soff wild yeast; a strainlost like Gospels in Crusades.The lonely tree survivessomehow, through cavernous decay —of course the urban kind, a-theistically gentrified.It persevered, despiteits persecution, thrivingsafely in the tower’s shade.The bell it once containedwould cry or beg for mercyto be euthanized, ifit hadn’t already gone deaf,dumb, and blindin some mythical time-before-time. Where its boomingtone had once reverberated,low and resonant,the sound has sincebeen replaced by over-powered subwoofers,speaking in too-smallSedans. I tried to ringthe bell again to shakethe tree of fruit, but foundthe padlock cut and the gaterusted shut, keeping whatferments inside from spillingout and altaring our lives.

I do fiction, plays, comics, songs, articles, Upworthy, Wirecutter, and more. (also some copywriting stuff but that sounds way less cool). I enjoy mythophysics, robots & whiskey, and Oxford Commas, and I firmly believe that Journey's "Don't Stop Believing" is the single greatest atrocity committed against mankind. Rep'd by the Kepner Agency.